


The Sound of Bells

by LadyLuckDoubt



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: M/M, Phoenix Wright Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-21
Updated: 2011-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-17 04:43:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLuckDoubt/pseuds/LadyLuckDoubt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gant manipulates Lana into procuring an intoxicated young Edgeworth for him. Lana, barely realising what she's doing, overhears him being abused in the next room.</p><p>Major warnings for rape and abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Bells

**Author's Note:**

> _Gant announces to Lana he's decided he wants to have Bratworth. However, the boy is too untrusting for Gant to get close to him, so Lana will have to supress him herself._
> 
>  
> 
> _Lana's hardly in a position to argue, and reluctantly drugs or knocks Edgeworth out so Gant can do his thing._
> 
>  
> 
> _She ends up listening to the whole thing from the next room. Edgeworth is concious and tries to be snarky, but it's obvious he's scared out of his wits and before Gant's done he's reduced to pleading for Gant to stop. Lana is sickened by it and her participation in it._
> 
>  
> 
> _Afterwards, Gant is unrepentant and openly teases her for her help. Edgeworth is obviously shaken. If he doesn't realize she was involved (which I'd prefer) He tries to talk to her about it but loses his nerve._
> 
> Thanks to Tsunoba, who caught a part that I missed moving over from the original post on the Phoenix Wright Kink Meme: muchly appreciated! <3

"It's a pity, my dear, isn't it?" From across their large, sprawling office, Damon Gant was pondering. Lana Skye looked up from her desk; she and Damon were close as pair of sculpted lovers embracing; yet when he started talking like that, when he had a new one in his sights, it made something in the back of her neck tingle uncomfortably. She could never put her finger on it; Damon changed; he seemed overtaken by a kind of mental illness-- a hunger, a far-too-focussed obsession-- and now, this new kid, the prim, proper, perfect little prosecutor-- had wandered into his line of vision. 

He would have no idea what he was in for.

Lana had seen that look from her boss before; but usually the recipients of the infamous Damon Gant gaze as she privately referred to it-- were older and more jaded-- often they were suspects; shady people who'd already been broken by life, who would have the experience of Damon just being another thing that happened to them. Not that there was anything wrong with him; he treated them well, he sometimes paid them well, and he offered extra favours, too, apparently. There was a reason that pretty little con-man Welsh, Willis-- Wellington-- that was his name-- never got served with any charges in that fraud investigation. Because Damon Gant had liked the look of him, and he'd paid whatever asked of him for a clean record. It was always a mutually consensual relationship, Damon had told her; it wouldn't make much sense on his part for it to not be.

But still, she didn't like hearing him talk about one of their colleagues like that. It wasn't that Edgeworth was young-- there were plenty of young people who worked in the office-- she had her suspicions that Meekins had been another recipient of the gaze of Gant-- it was something more. Edgeworth held a kind of quiet, unreachable sadness about him; he was friendly enough and unobtrusive for the most part; he moved around like he wasn't quite on the same plane as everyone else, as though everything were being overanalysed before he dared react to it. 

She'd delved into his background slightly and been horrified; the kid had lost his father when he was nine, been brought up by Manfred von Karma, who'd served as a mentor to him. She could see it in him; the way he dressed, the way he walked-- he was a younger, spitting-image version of the man. It seemed strange to her that she hadn't seen more of him about the office when he was younger, that Damon was so curious about a kid he already should have met through his good friend and swimming buddy, Manfred von Karma. 

"What's a pity, Mr. Gant?" 

"The boy. The new darling of the office."

Lana said nothing, waiting for him to continue. Response could be construed as encouragement. 

"I'm a bit disappointed in old Manny," he continued, a smile in his voice. "I would have thought he'd have introduced us." 

"Maybe he never had the time. Perhaps Miles was always at school or studying or something?"

"Oh, I've seen him  _around_ ," Damon continued. "I was just looking at him this afternoon and got to thinking-- he's turned into a nice little package, hasn't he?" 

Lana didn't know how to respond. Agreeing with Damon could look like conspiracy. Not saying anything might bring forth a barrage of inappropriate comments from her superior. Arguing-- Damon loved an argument. He practically incited them, loving the chance to flex his intellectual muscle and win. 

She nodded warily. Maybe it was reading his report, but she always felt there was an inhuman, incapable sadness about young Edgeworth, a kid in man's clothes, desperately trying to prove to a dead father that he was a success somehow. It was tragic, not attractive. 

"He hardly speaks to me," Damon continued, sounding confused and upset like a kid with a crush. "I've tried talking to him, but he's so damned shy. Usually they're quite open to any requests I may have."

She raised an eyebrow. Usually they needed a miracle to get them out of court, and they were willing to provide him with the miracle. This one was different, though. Maybe he had seen hard times and tragedy, but he hadn't succumbed to a criminal life as the regular ones he liked did. He was successful, dignified, and quietly confident.

Maybe that was part of his appeal.

"I want him, Lana," he said, determined.

She blinked, expression calm and unfettered, eyes widened, silently asking him, "... _And?_ " She was the perfect employee. She liked her boss. She didn't mind helping him out with things; hell, spending time with him socially was generally enjoyable. Damon Gant was affable and eccentric, big-hearted and friendly.

She just hated hearing about this side of his life, and resented the idea of becoming involved. 

"I need you to assist me," he said with an add-on chuckle. "I think I could use a woman's touch in this situation."

"I'm not touching  _anything_ ," she said, smiling.  _There_. Make it into a joke, brush it off, get the crazy idea out of his head. What he was proposing was ridiculous-- not only for him, and for Edgeworth, but... she was almost certain that if Manfred von Karma found out about it, he'd be nothing short of livid. 

"Ho ho ho!" His hands came together with a loud  _smack_. "I'm not asking you to do that, my dear. Just wondering if at all you could offer some gentle persuasion to the young man. I really think I need to get to know him a bit better, that's all."

Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe some of it was the truth. Maybe his curiousity was quite innocent. After all, he'd never asked for involvement with the others, it had been his doing entirely.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked. Maybe it would be a simple matter of pulling him aside and having a talk to him, letting Miles know that Damon Gant was a great contact and an excellent boss; just giving him some good PR. It wasn't like he'd ever asked her to do anything illegal or underhanded before, she trusted him implicitly: they had that sort of a working relationship; close. Maybe  _too_  close, she wondered, because she knew about the others. And now, Miles Edgeworth.

"There's the awards ceremony next week," he said. "And, of course, the after party-- I'd like you to... put him at ease a little bit. Maybe have a little talk with him. Assure him that I'm not some scary ogre of a man, that I'm quite... friendly." He tweaked the strand of hair dangling from his forehead. "Maybe it's the beard," he said vaguely. "I was told the beard could look imposing." He chuckled again. 

Lana bristled. The way he was talking, it was almost like he was wanting her to...  _procure_  him. He seemed strangely obsessed lately-- something about him was more on-edge and hypermanic than usual.

She chuckled nervously. "Okay," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'll have a word with him and get a few drinks into him if you  _really_  think it'll do anything." She paused, considering. "I think he's just...  _shy_ , to be honest." She wasn't going to talk about his past; it wasn't really her place to. And anyway, Damon had probably perused his file and asked around about him anyway if he was this interested. 

"He doesn't need to be shy when it comes to  _me_." 

Lana laughed again. Maybe some outward friendliness would put him at ease, make him settle into the workplace a bit better. Between Jake Marshall's loud cowboy persona and apparent distance, and Angel flirting with the poor kid, maybe all he really needed was some warmth and genuine friendliness from someone. Damon Gant had been good for her, she reassured herself with; he'd flirted a little bit, but that had been it. She hadn't taken it anywhere, he never pushed for more than some friendly banter.

But something left her uneasy about his request. 

Nonetheless, she grinned before looking back at her computer screen. "Of course he doesn't," she said.

 

 

 

Two weeks after his first trial, and Miles Edgeworth seemed to be settling in amongst the rest of them fairly well, Lana supposed. 

She watched from a afar; he tended to keep to himself, and he stood a small distance from the catering table, a plastic champagne flute in his hand, half-full (while this was an all-expenses paid afterparty provided by the Department of Justice, they cut costs where they could-- this included offering  _small_  serves of cheap bubbly in plastic glasses)-- and looking as he usually did; quiet and distant from everyone else. 

She glanced across the room; Damon was talking loudly and enthusiastically to Manfred von Karma, Edgeworth's mentor. von Karma seemed interested in whatever they were discussing, and he was listening, fully attentive, not even casting the odd glance upwards to see what his protege was doing.

Something about von Karma made her uneasy, too: his appearance was so...  _refined_  and yet he seemed to be the kind of man who no one said no to-- she wondered if she should worry about her boss instead of Edgeworth. She was aware of their longstanding friendship; all the more reason she hoped-- and forced herself to believe-- that Damon's motives were purely innocent.

She turned back to Edgeworth as a rather friendlier-than-usual Angel Starr sidled up to him; she'd seen Angel throughout the ceremony, looking bored senseless, like she was only sitting out the presentation for the promise of the after party and the cheap wine and nibblies. Evidently she'd wasted no time on the free champagne, and when she approached Miles, her smile was wide and more than a little bit flirtatious. Poor kid. It wasn't that Angel  _meant_  to love 'em and leave 'em, but she  _did_ , and Miles had already had a rough time with that horrible mess with the Fawles affair and all. Less than a moment after Angel had appeared and said something Lana couldn't hear, she saw his face redden, and decided to do the honorable thing and at least save him from a particularly uncomfortable situation.

At least Damon wasn't going to embarrass him and maybe break his heart and act like nothing had happened afterwards, she supposed.

 

  
A waiter passed by with a tray of plastic glasses and champagne. She accepted one with a smile, and wandered over towards Miles and Angel.

"Enjoying yourselves?" she asked breezily.

Angel raised an eyebrow. There was unspoken rivalry between the two of them; Lana was quiet and sensible, Angel was bold and confident and somehow seemed to get away with extremely risky behaviour. All the while maintaining an air of mystery and class about her-- Angel's effortlessness scared her sometimes, particularly when she'd seen through the breezy facade and realised that underneath the seductive exterior and the ability to talk to anyone and put everyone at ease, there was a woman tougher than nails. 

She found herself wishing that Damon had asked  _her_  to talk to Miles.  _She_  would have been better at it; but Damon seemed to regard her with a touch of suspicion-- she wasn't someone you asked favours of easily, either. It didn't take much for the smile to harden, and the hair to flip and Angel to dig her stiletto heels in and offer a stubborn, final " _No_." All the while without a hair out of place-- and still smiling.

"As much as can be expected," she said. She glanced at Miles. "I was just talking to our new boy here, Lana." She chuckled, and glanced at him. Miles stood there holding his champagne glass, as though it were merely a prop rather than something to consume. He still looked vastly uncomfortable.

"Poor Miles," Lana offered kindly. "You'll scare him. He's had enough to deal with lately." She winked, and turned to Miles. She felt an almost big-sisterly concern for him-- "Ignore her, she's only teasing." She smiled. "And... drink up. You're officially being mentored by the best of the best... Worthy." 

 _Worthy_. She was using Damon's nickname for him. She cast a quick, subconscious glance in his direction, and to her shock, turquoise eyes peered back at her, silently asking for results. Manfred was still there talking with him, of course, trophy under his arm, but he seemed oblivious to Gant's gaze being elsewhere for the moment.

He chuckled; a shallow, uncomfortable laugh. Nervous-- it was strange how everyone spoke of how assertive he was, and how forceful he'd been in the courtroom, yet here, in what was supposed to be a relaxed situation, surrounded by colleagues and friends and supporters, he looked horribly wound up.

 

Lana found herself wanting him to drink if only to ease his nerves. To see the poor kid relax a little bit-- everything in his stance and voice seemed so  _tense_. She could empathise in a way; she remembered being the new kid on the job, looking around at her seniors uncertainly, and thought of how far she'd come, how easily she'd settled in. She longed to help Miles grow to feel as she now did.

And she realised that part of her transformation had come about because of knowing Damon Gant. 

She leaned in towards Edgeworth, and sipped her own champagne as though indicating that he should do the same. "How are you enjoying yourself, Miles?" 

He shot her a look which might have been grateful, and sipped his champagne. He looked as though he wasn't used to drinking it-- he winced as though he'd accidentally taken a sip of lemon juice.

"Not a champagne drinker?" Angel asked him with a chuckle. She turned her head slightly, flipping her thick, wavy hair seductively. "That's all right... there's hard liquor in the bar fridges up in the hotel rooms..." She winked and chuckled again, in the kind of way that made Miles wince with confusion; was this good-natured teasing or something more?

"I don't have a room here," he said. He shrugged; it didn't particularly bother him, but he couldn't bring himself to mention why he didn't have a room at the hotel for after the afterparty. He took another sip of his champagne, not sure what to add.

"You mean administration didn't organise one for you?" Angel was surprised. "But... you know what they're like for this thing... they go all out. A little birdie was telling me from Finance that this is the last year they cater it and do the VIP hotel rooms thing." She sounded a little disappointed, but shrugged. "I plan on enjoying myself this year." She winked again.

"I suppose it makes sense," Lana noted. "I mean, it's Department money being spent rather frivolously..."

"I see it as good occupational health and safety practise," Angel sniffed. "It reduces people drunkenly driving home."

"If they cut out the catering, then presumably they'd cut out the problem with people getting drunk in the first place," Miles noted. His voice was quiet and he wasn't really looking anyone in the eye. 

"Yeah," Angel sniffed. "Make the most of it this year, hey?" 

"I'll try." Miles offered her a smile. It wasn't her fault that she was so flirtatious, he supposed; it seemed to be her way of getting to work out people, and for most of them, it was all a bit of fun which put them at ease and broke the ice. It made him painfully uncomfortable, though; it was  _attention_ \-- and it worried him that if she tried to take it further and found out the truth about him, it would be even more horribly uncomfortable.

She spied Jake and Neil Marshall across the room; the brothers were clearly enjoying themselves, laughing and talking amongst themselves, champagne glasses in hands-- emptier than they'd been when they received them. Neil turned in their direction, raised his glass, and smiled. 

And suddenly Angel's focus had left Miles. "I'd love to talk," she drawled, "But I think I have business elsewhere." With another wink and a smile, champagne glass in hand and a trail of floral perfume following her, she stalked off in their direction. 

Lana placed a hand on Miles' shoulder. "Don't let her get to you," she said gently. "She doesn't mean anything serious by it... it's just her way of being friendly."

 

  
Miles nodded. "I know," he said. "It's just that..." His eyes moved away from hers. He didn't want to tell her; he trusted Lana Skye somewhat-- she was like the big sister he'd never had in a way-- a distant, unfamiliar big sister-- and he felt he could trust her. But still, gossip travelled around the office like the flu virus; whether someone like Lana intended to spread it around, it could get out to everyone else nonetheless.

"You have a girlfriend, don't you?" she asked with a smile.

"Not quite," Miles said softly, eyes cast to the floor. "But sort of."

He liked that she didn't push at all, didn't ask something hopelessly disturbing or off the mark. He was tempted tell her, but she'd diplomatically changed the subject. "What do you think of us?" she asked. "The Department of Prosecution... in party mode." She chuckled and her eyes drifted over the crowd around them.

"It's a good job," Miles said politely. "Everyone's making me feel really welcome." 

"That's nice to hear." In his vivid orange suit, Damon Gant stood out like a road worker in safety gear, and Lana's gaze paused on him for a moment. She caught his eye, and he smiled. Manfred had wandered off to talk with someone else-- and seeing this as an invitation to come over, he headed towards them.

"There's Damon," she said brightly. "He was telling me he'd like to have a chat with you."

"Oh?" Miles frowned, and sipped his champagne again. "Am I in trouble?"

"No... no-- nothing like that. He was telling me what a great job you've been doing and how he really hasn't had much of a chance to talk to the new young prosecutor around the office."

"I haven't been much of a prosecutor  _yet_."

"He's seen how committed you are to your work, Miles," she said. "And... he's a great man. Trust me on this-- he's helped me so much..." 

"I've never really had a chance to catch up with him," Miles said. "He always seems so busy."

"You should stop by his office... I'm sure he'd stop playing that organ or looking over his casework to have a chat to you..." 

"He- _llo_." Damon Gant approached them, sunglasses falling part of the way down his nose, his long silver strand of fringe dangling limply in front of him. 

"Hi." Lana grinned. "I was just telling Miles he should have a chat to you."

Damon peered at Miles with an intense, focussed interest, as though he couldn't quite believe that he was standing so close to him. "Hello, Worthy." 

His smile was broad and his voice was loud and friendly. He was like an over-exuberant uncle who offered bear hugs even in inappropriate or somber occasions. Miles looked down at the floor again. He wasn't good at dealing with extroverted people.

"Hello, sir." He smiled slightly; Lana had assured him that Gant was a good guy and he'd heard through the office grapevine that he was the life of the party;  _every_  party; and he'd never heard Manfred say anything against the man; still, he had a strange feeling when he looked into the older man's eyes. He saw something far too curious there, and turned back to drink the last of his glass and look at his feet. 

"Shy, aren't you?" Damon chuckled, that booming  _Ho, ho ho_  laugh of his, and reached towards him, arm outstretched like he was approaching a nervous dog. "How're you enjoying the celebrations, Worthy? One day it might be  _your_  name on that trophy rather than old Manny's, eh?" He smiled; his teeth shining with an almost unnatural whiteness. 

"Perhaps," Miles said. He felt Gant's fingertips on his chin, tilting his head upwards so their eyes met. 

"You don't need to be shy with me, Worthy." He laughed to himself and let go of Miles abruptly. He looked down at the young prosecutor's hand and noticed the empty glass. "I'll get you another," he offered.

"It's all right," Miles said quietly, "I'm not really much of a drinker anyway."

"Relax," he said. "Let your hair down for a bit; you mightn't drink that much normally, but it's the  _after party_ , Miles. No one's going to mind if you overindulge a little this evening."

He smiled, but didn't agree to more champagne. Truth be known, he wasn't used to white wines; growing up in Manfred von Karma's household had taught him that a good drink was either in the form of a dark red wine, or imported spirits which were carefully measured out into tiny serves. 

As though he could read his mind, Damon smiled again. "Perhaps something a bit  _stronger_  would be more to your liking?" 

Lana chuckled. "You know me," she said to Gant. It was funny how she changed in his presence, Miles noticed; she seemed so much more at ease, was able to have a joke with him. 

He reached behind him and presented a bottle of whisky. Miles noted the brand and the label, and did his best to hide his surprise. "A reward for one of my favourite colleagues," he said with an almost lewd grin.

Lana giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. "Which one of us are you referring to?" she asked.

Gant laughed, but didn't answer the question, thrusting the bottle towards them. "Enjoy," he said. "It was given to me as part of a hamper, and, well,  _share the wealth_  is what I always say." He laughed again. "Mind you make sure Worthy here has a few drinks and loosens up a little." 

Miles offered a polite smile. "I'l be sure to enjoy it," he said. "Thankyou."

Lana gave him an encouraging nod. "Thankyou, sir," she said with a nod.

"Did you wind up deciding to spend the night here?" he asked. "You'd probably want to if you polish off the bottle." He chuckled again.

"Yes," she said. "I figured I'd make the most of workplace perks."

"How 'bout you?" His gaze focussed on Miles. 

"I wasn't planning on it," Miles said. 

"Oh-- too good for us, are you?" It wasn't really the kind of statement that could have been taken as an insult-- there was too much of a smile, and too much good humour in it. Still, it made him nervous. 

"Nothing like that," Miles corrected himself with, "Manfred said there really was no point given that we live so close by."

"But..." Lana trailed off. "Only the VIPs get offered hotel rooms as part of the perks of working around this place. It's not like  _everyone_  gets them." She was surprised; ordinarily Manfred von Karma liked anything that suggested that he was important.

"Manny said that, did he?" The look on Gant's face changed; he seemed somewhat irritated. "Oh well-- you know you're always free to crash in my room if anything should happen." He chuckled again and nodded to Lana, winking at Miles. "Anything Manfred might not be so approving of, too."

He didn't know quite  _how_  Damon knew that Manfred had a hatred of drunkenness that bordered on irrational, but he made a fair point and a reasonable offer.

 

  
Not that Miles was going to touch that bottle of twelve-year-old whiskey. It was for Lana, anyway. Everyone knew those two were closer than lovers; office gossip sometimes hinted that they  _were_. The bottle was for her to enjoy, Miles knew that he'd only been included in the invitation as an afterthought; Gant couldn't very well  _not_  offer him some alcohol. 

"He's bailed me out of a few potentially embarrassing situations before," Lana said with a chuckle. 

"Anything for a gorgeous young woman such as yourself." 

She grinned at Miles. "See what I have to come in to work with every morning?" 

Miles chuckled. They seemed to have a wonderful working relationship-- and other than her-- and Manfred of course; he himself had hardly connected with anyone in the office. He still felt entirely too new and young and...  _green_. He might have sort of proven himself as a force to be reckoned with in the Fawles trial, but still one which couldn't quite control the environment in the way that Manfred could. He had a big pair of shoes to fill, and he knew it-- and so did everyone  _else_. 

Damon spied Angel across the room; she was talking with Goodman and gesturing for him to come over. "I must depart," he said with a smile and a wink. "Enjoy yourselves, though." 

"We will." Lana grinned at him, holding the bottle in her hands. 

They watched as Damon Gant strode off, jovial and pleased with himself, ready for more social interaction.

"He's very...  _people oriented_ , isn't he?" Miles asked.

"You can say that again." Lana chuckled. "Look at him: nicest guy in the world. Doesn't have a bad word to say about anyone."

"Yes."

They both glanced down at the bottle of whiskey. "Generous, too," Lana added. She looked up at him with a conspiring, devillish grin. Normally, she was sensible and sweet, but tonight was the perfect opportunity to let one's hair down... wasn't it? 

"Let's not let his generosity go to waste, hey, Miles?"

  
They'd found a stairwell just outside of the lobby, out of eyesight of most of the other conventioners, and, the remains of their cheap champagne discarded in a nearby plant pot, they'd begun pouring themselves whiskey from the bottle. 

 

"This was so nice of Mr. Gant, wasn't it?" Lana asked.

"Yeah," breathed Miles. "He's a great man. A great great  _great_  man."

 

It hadn't taken Miles long to feel the effects of the alcohol. He wasn't used to drinking like this; but the fact that he could relax away from the crowd and out of sight, the fact that Lana was good company and they just had the luxury of sitting there and drinking-- it was all too easy to go over the limit. 

He remembered when he started giggling, when it became harder to remember the most basic words, when stringing together a sentence became an effort. He remembered Lana laughing at something he'd said, he remembered an arm around his shoulder and her gripping him in a tight hug when he admitted that while he  _liked_  Angel Starr, he had no sexual interest in her because he... was... notinterestedingirlslikethat.

He remembered feeling violently ill, and he remembered the sound of bells indicating that the celebrations were to be over and that the cleanup crew at the Gatewater were to be heading into the main hall to begin tidying up the mess of more than one hundred people and their leftovers and now-empty plastic champagne glasses. 

By the time Lana reached for her cell phone and made the call, he was slumped over the stairs, eyes closed and close to passed out. He could hear noises around him, people rushing out and past, but it was like he was underwater; everything seemed vague and muffled, and he felt horribly warm. His head was spinning, turning over and over and into itself; he couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to.

  
"Sir?" Lana was glad when there'd only been one ring on the other end of the phone. Her voice was frantic as she envisioned fate serving a horrible dish of trouble her way; the idea of Manfred von Karma walking past and seeing him-- why the  _hell_  was he dressed so distinctly?-- like this. She'd be in trouble. Edgeworth would most likely be in trouble. And here she was, doing all she could to prevent that. She'd remembered Gant's offer even though she'd never seriously thought she'd be resorting to it.

"We have a problem," she said before Gant could get a word in. Slightly tipsy herself, she was now grateful for her hotel room. She could sleep this off, drink plenty of water, maybe arrive at work an hour late and Gant would understand. Maybe they could sober up Edgeworth and send him home in a taxi, with Manfred none the wiser.

"What would that problem be, my dear?" He sounded just as friendly as he always did, fortunately untroubled and willing to help.

"Um... Miles... he's, urh..." She looked down at him, and as though he could still make out his own name, he groaned slightly-- "Passed out."

Gant just laughed. "Oh dearie me!" he exclaimed. "Little Worthy can't handle his liquor?"

"He's had a fair bit to drink," she said. "We were..." And suddenly, she felt a horrible sense of responsibility for him. It was her fault in a way; the poor kid was such a mess and so unused to being able to drink as much as he wanted...

"Please don't let him get into trouble," she whispered into the handset. "If Manfred finds out... he'll..."

"Yes-- he won't be very happy, will he?" And he chuckled again. The lack of seriousness was unnerving. Lana just wanted an answer, to know what she should  _do_  with the drunken prosecutor. She couldn't very well shift him herself, yet she couldn't just  _leave_  him there to the elements and the most likely-to-be-horrified public. Maybe Gant could at least  _move_  him somewhere.

"Tell me where you are... I'm just finishing up here myself-- it seems that they want us to go home-- or to bed-- or someplace else-- right now anyway."

The responsible adult in her returned. "We're at the stairwell leading up to the fire exit just opposite the potted plants near the foyer," she said. " _Please_  hurry."

Gant chuckled. "Anything for you, my dear," he said kindly, before clicking off his phone. 

 

  
Lana stood up on unsteady legs, hoping he'd arrive soon, that he wouldn't get distracted by other colleagues who wanted to chat to him. To her relief, she saw the flash of orange suit approaching them and sighed. Two heads would be better than one.

"Oh,  _Worthy_." Gant looked down at him, and leaned over, gently lifting his head off the step it lay on, and smiling as the young man blinked wearily with recognition. "What have you  _done_  to yourself?"

He mumbled something which might have sounded like  _Thankyou for the whisky_  but probably didn't; in his head, it did, but when the words hit the air around him, their effect was slowed and drowsy, like a tape being played on a dying walkman. When had it all become such an  _effort_?

"Can you get to your feet, Miles?" Lana asked urgently, leaning down to place an arm under his, trying in vain to lift him.

"Come on then," Gant said with an exaggerated sigh and a roll of his eyes. "Time to get moving."

"What are we going to do with him?" she murmured, voice fearful. "If anyone else realises it's him and word gets back to Manfred..." She couldn't think of how furious the man would be. 

"My dear," Gant said, patting her shoulder gently, "I trust that you will think of an appropriate diversion while I relocate Mr. Edgeworth to a more private setting."

Lana's nose twitched nervously. "I'll think of something," she said. "Just move him..." She normally didn't speak to Gant like that. But concern for Miles had made her frantic, now, and scared. Miles, at heart, was a good kid.

Gant nodded, his cool, easygoing smile still on his face. "I'll take good care of him," he said smoothly. He turned down to Miles, and shook his face gently. "Won't I, Worthy?"

Around them, partygoers had started leaving. Lana thought she spied a puzzled and irritated looking Manfred von Karma who was pacing around the entrance to the hall, probably looking for Miles. She turned away quickly, deciding then and there that she would keep a lookout at the door-- if Manfred tried leaving, she could distract him somehow. She hoped Gant was as strong as he looked and that Miles was functioning well enough to cooperate with him.

 

It had been a rough night, she thought, and in a way, she found herself longing for the time when they phased the alcohol and the hotel rooms from the convention as Angel said they would. It would stop naive newbies with social difficulties-- like Miles-- from getting drunk and possibly damaging themselves careerwise, if not anything else.

Guiltily, she thought about her own role in the situation. While she hadn't been the one filling and refilling his cup, she also hadn't told him to stop. A sense of irritation came to her; she wasn't his guardian. 

But she was his workmate, and she'd seen what was happening. She'd watched him getting steadily drunker, she'd talked and listened-- but she hadn't told him to stop. 

 _Would he have stopped anyway?_  she wondered. In the distance, she could see Manfred's face growing more irritated as he searched for his associate who wasn't going to make a reappearance. What had  _he_  been doing all night? Suddenly the trophy under his arm no longer looked like an achievement but a dead weight. 

She waited, as though also in search of someone who wasn't going to make a reappearance. When Manfred finally gave up, and headed towards the doors, he caught sight of her.

 

"Lana?" he asked. "I'm sorry to trouble you but-- have you seen Miles tonight, at all?" From the sound of his voice, he was puling at straws, desperately asking a familiar face for some assistance.

"I saw him earlier in the evening," she said. "I don't know where he is now." That was the truth, in a roundabout cop-confession sort of way. It just happened to be a truth that omitted a larger truth. 

Manfred nodded sternly. "I was  _hoping_  that he would have the sense to behave himself."

She steeled herself, making sure not to give anything away. The worry and concern she shared with Manfred was genuine, albeit for a completely different reason. 

"If I see him, I'll mention that you're looking for him." 

"Thankyou."

"He wouldn't have left the hotel, would he?" Entirely plausible. "Maybe he was just in a partying sort of mood." She sighed an exaggerated breath. "You know what men can get like that that age," she offered with a hollow chuckle.

"Miles is not like that," Manfred snapped. "Particularly not in a professional setting."

"No, of course not." She regretted that statement, and the stony gaze facing her. She felt glad she'd helped Miles escape it while he was this intoxicated. 

"I'll see you later," Manfred said tightly as she crossed her fingers and headed towards the elevator.

 

 

 

When Lana arrived at the elevator, she was relieved to see no sign of either Gant or Miles. They'd made their escape, thankfully, and she sighed with slightly-tipsy relief, heading down to her hotel room. 

It would be disappointing when they phased the hotel out, she realised. This year they'd spared no expense-- a large bed capable of sleeping at least four people awaited her, the cover turned down a small box of chocolates sitting atop it. Then there was the minibar-- Angel had been right about that. She smiled, wondering what her larger-than-life colleague was getting up to, flopping down on the bed and kicking her heels off. This was the life. 

From the room next to her, she could hear soft, animalistic moaning. 

She rolled her eyes; something about workplace affairs had always seemed a bit tacky to her, particularly this close to one's colleagues. Surely the happy couple could have waited or gone back to someone's house...?

But curiousity got the better of her. She was no gossip, but it was always good to know precisely what was going on around you. She didn't even need to press a glass to the wall to hear, either, and she tried to put a face to the voice. 

Then she realised: the moans weren't those of ecstasy, but drunken, pained, downright embarrassed murmurs. They could only belong to one person-- she hadn't seen anyone  _else_  drunk that night, and to her knowledge, the Department had reserved the entire floor for its employees. 

 _Miles_ , she thought to herself,  _You idiot._  She hoped he hadn't done anything  _too_  awful, and felt a surge of gratitude towards Damon Gant, for hiding him and getting him away from the crowd so quickly.

The groans intensified. She wondered if he was okay, if at least Gant was with him or if he'd gone back downstairs to mingle, being the social animal that he was.

Guilt flooded her, and she got off the bed, and opened her door and stepped out of her room. Knocking on Gant's door, she was surprised to get no response. She tried the handle.  _Locked_. At least that would mean he could sleep off the effects of the alcohol and not do anything particularly embarrassing. Gant had been smart.

"Everything okay in there?" she asked. So professional, almost police officer-like. 

"Fine and dandy like candy," she heard Gant call back to her. She began wondering what-- and how much-- he'd been putting into his system. He certainly sounded pleased enough-- but then again, he usually did. It was a happy man who could manage to maintain cheerfulness when he was dealing with someone utterly intoxicated. 

"Okay!" She was glad Gant was in there taking care of him; it absolved her of having to deal with him-- it wasn't really her fault it had happened, and while she was concerned... she was glad someone else was taking charge for a bit. Everyone always said she naturally assumed responsibility, as though she was  _meant_  to and as though she  _enjoyed_  it. Not always. 

And while it felt selfish to admit it, not  _now_  when a luxury hotel room awaited her.

 

Returning to her room, she rolled her eyes as the drunken murmurs continued, and decided to retreat to the ensuite for a soak in the oversized bath with the massaging spa jets. And the expensive-smelling hotel bubble bath. Filling the tub and contentedly blocking out the sounds of Miles moaning and groaning like a kid at a frat house keg party, she watched the steam rise and cloud the mirror and smiled to herself. It was the first time, in a long time, that she'd had a break. Part of her felt she deserved this. 

She undressed and stepped into the tub, leaving her clothes on a pile on the floor. She could deal with it all  _later_.

 

It was when she raised her head that she heard the first thump. Dull and heavy and horrible, like someone falling off a bed and not realising.  
  
It had come to a surprise to her; the bathroom was insulated and noises within-- the dripping of taps or slight splashes-- echoed amongst the steam and the soft peach-orange light.  
  
A thump like that sounded out of place against the tranquility of the bathroom.  
  
When she'd first heard it, she thought she might be mistaken-- until the second one. That caused her to sit up, trying to place where it had come from-- either side of her, _not_ from above or below.  
  
Then there was the chuckle which followed the thump. " _Come on_ , Worthy." An amused sort of roll-your-eyes groan like a parent issues to a child dawdling behind them in a shopping mall.  
  
Something about it seemed far too out of place; Miles was _drunk_. Whatever had caused the _thump_ didn't sound at all lighthearted and humourous, it had sounded dangerous; and it bothered her that Gant seemed to be taking the whole situation so lightly.  
  
Then she heard the whine. "No..."  
  
No... _what?_  
  
"Just a little bit, Worthy, come on now." His voice was saccharine and oozing warmth. Artificial warmth; it was that trust-me voice police used when interviewing a suspect when they wanted closeness where they could draw a confession out of them. Lana didn't like it; nor did she like the despair in Miles' voice. He didn't sound like a drunk whining about being asked to sit up, he sounded... _pained_.  
  
"No."  
  
"Let's not be _silly_ about this. _Really_ , now... it'll be far easier if you just cooperate."  
  
Suddenly the bathroom seemed silent, and the only noises she was aware of were the ones of the people in the room next to hers. She shuddered, and submerged herself in the bathwater again. Maybe her mind was embellishing things-- she instinctively thought the worst because she'd seen too much from her career vantage point of the worst in people. It made her possibly unnecessarily-- suspicious.  
  
Damon Gant was a great guy; her closest ally and friend in the workplace. She knew him. He wouldn't do anything _wrong_. He had a devil's smile and a wacky sense of humour and a loud booming voice, but a good heart.  
  
But then came Miles' voice, cold and controlled. "No, _thankyou_ , Mr. Gant."  
  
He sounded as though he'd sobered up somewhat; his dignity and assertiveness had returned, enough for him to say no to whatever he was being offered. Lana wanted to think it was more alcohol, drugs maybe-- but for the undercurrent of fear in Miles' voice. He didn't sound like a teenage actor in a movie about peer group pressure, he sounded genuinely uncertain and frightened.  
  
"Ho ho ho!" There was the inimitable smack of skin on skin as Gant clapped, customary after one of his incredibly self-satisfied chuckles. "It's all _right_ to be a bit apprehensive, Worthy, and I'll admit that I _like_ the whole innocent thing." Lana could practically _see_ the grin on his face now, the glimmer of teeth shining in his smile. "But I've heard information to the contrary." He chuckled again. "I've heard that you're the dee-pee-pee's resident PlayStation, and that just about everyone's had a play with you."  
  
There was a brief silence before a murmured protest which Lana had to strain to hear. "N-No... I don't know where you heard that."  
  
"Relax! It seems you're still a bit more discerning than _I_ am," he cackled. "I've heard you don't go in for the ladies that much... but you do know how to show the gentlemen a good time, don't you, Worthy?"  
  
Standing up now, Lana was frozen between wanting to continue listening-- even though she wasn't sure _why_ \-- perhaps to learn some truth which made everything she'd heard seem a lot less dubious-- and the desire to somehow block it all out. It wasn't her fault; she wasn't his caretaker, and he was a big boy afterall, wasn't he?  
  
But a part of her felt a pang of guilt, mingled with a sense of responsibility towards him anyway. And she _was_ vaguely curious about the rumours which Gant had mentioned-- she'd never heard a thing about him like _that_.  
  
Miles' voice was a shudder. "I- _please_ \-- I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Gant."

 

Gant laughed and clapped again. 

"A little birdy told me that  _both_  the Marshall brothers would have something else to say about that," he chuckled. 

There was silence. Embarrassment leading to an unintentional confession, or utter disbelief? Lana couldn't tell.

"It wasn't at the same time, now, was it?" Gant asked. "I've heard a few interesting things about both of  _them_ , too..."

"No!" Then next thing Lana could hear was footsteps, their frantic movement not entirely muffled by the carpet, and Edgeworth's voice moving in another direction as he-- most likely-- made his way towards the door.

"I thank you for your hospitality and for helping me evade the wrath of Manfred," he said, "But now I need to head home."

There was a futile, mechanical sound as he tried the handle of the door, then a hiss of disbelief and horror.

"I need the  _key_!"

At this, Lana stepped out of the bath, and grabbed the fluffy cream-coloured towel next to the handbasin. She had to  _do_  something; she couldn't just leave him there like that-- could she? She felt sick to her stomach: this was her fault. 

... _And Gant's_ , she reminded herself. No one had made him "help out" and certainly no one had forced him to be scaring the living daylights out of Edgeworth like that. He could have just left the kid sleep off the effects of the alcohol and then clean himself up and go home, couldn't he?

"Come on now, Worthy, back to bed."

"N-No."

She clutched the towel around her, and stood, frozen and unsure what to do. It always seemed so simple in the movies when someone needed to get to the other side of the room-- they just kicked the door down, and it would swing open easily and whatever was happening on the other side would be disturbed-- and whoever was being imprisoned would be able to escape in the unexpected chaos. 

 

She grabbed a hotel bath robe from the hook on the back of the door and flung it on, ignoring the fact that she hadn't dried off and the soft fabric felt cloying and sticky next to her skin. And she raced out of the bathroom, grabbing her key from the bedside table 

"Leave me alone,  _please_ "--

and stepped out of her room.

 

  
As the door shut behind her, she realised how futile it was; the weight of it, and whatever mechanisms in the hinges seemed to have a strength far greater than her own; then there was the lock to contend with. And eerily enough, now that she was in the corridor, she couldn't hear anything. 

She walked over to the door anyway, and with an almighty push, she threw her weight against it, to absolutely no avail. She felt her shoulder slide down, the fluffy soft bathrobe slipping against the painted surface of the door, and sighed. "Jesus," she murmured. 

What else could she do? Call the police? Call room service? Somehow interrupt things?

That was an idea. She unlocked her own room and stepped back into her own. Looking at the phone in her room, she realised that if she rang 

"No, Mr. Gant--  _don't_ \--"  _thump._

from here, she'd be instantly recognisable. 

 

A call from a cell phone would be a better way to preserve anonymity.

She grabbed her own phone and noted the lobby number on the base. Punching the numbers into her own phone, she stuck a finger in her ear to block out the sounds from beyond the wall. Were they really that loud, or was her mind just amplifying them?

 

"Hello, Gatewater Hotel, lobby-- how can I assist you this evening?"

"Hello?" she asked, desperate to still the stammer in her voice. "I'm one of your guests here. The gentleman in room 205 just popped by to advise me that his telephone wasn't working and that he was trying to dial for room service."

"That's strange," the voice on the other end of the phone said. "The telephones were tested only yesterday afternoon." There was a pause. "I shall run a couple of tests to make sure that phone is operational. Thankyou for contacting us."

"That's... all right," she said quietly.

"Is there anything else we can hep you with today?" His voice was so perky and eager that she longed to yell the reality of what was happening in the room next to her into the handset. Yet somehow the words were lost, and removing her finger from her ear, she realised that she couldn't hear anything; a silence had taken over from the previous sounds she'd heard there. Maybe Edgeworth had made him stop. Maybe they were playing some sort of a game which she'd have preferred to have not known about. Maybe...

"No, thankyou." She switched off the phone and walked back into the bathroom, removing her robe when it seemed safe to, like it had all been taken care of, and settling back down into the comfort of the gradually diminishing white foam on the surface of the water. 

 

And then she heard the protests again. 

Edgeworth's voice sounded different this time, every trace of confidence and sarcasm vanished, now replaced with a resigned, helpless kind of pleading which sounded nothing like him. The change was horrifying. 

"That's a bit better, Worthy... if you cooperate, it's going to be much more enjoyable."

"Please... don't..."

She heard a sickening moan as whatever Edgeworth was asking to not be done to him... probably was. And then gasps and sobs, all too loud, echoing through to her bathroom, filling the silence and making her heart race and her hands cover her ears.

She wasn't one to back away from horror. She was a defender of justice and what was  _fair_  and  _right_  and yet... somehow she'd managed to let this happen. She tried to not think about it, and was disgusted with her own gutlessness. Here she was, a player in the situation, and being asked to face the music, all she could do was put her hands over her ears?

 

  
She loathed herself for that. Her attempts at making it stop had seemed futile-- she should have asked Gant to bring Edgeworth to her own room-- hell, she should have told Manfred exactly what was going on when he'd asked. She should have stopped the poor, stupid little brat from drinking that much in the first place.

She heard a pained moan which she knew would stay with her for a long, long time. Then there was a creak of bed springs, heaving as though they too were relieved that it was over, and the hum of the fan in the bathroom, and the soft pitter patter of shower spray afterwards.

Would Gant let him go now? She hoped so; she would do the right thing now; she'd dress and step out of her room and offer him money for a taxi; hell, she was probably sober enough to drive him home. She'd try to talk to him; she'd apologise, she'd...

Try to play the hero to absolve herself of guilt.  _No_. The poor kid had sounded entirely humiliated when it was happening. He'd pleaded with Gant like a helpless child.

The last thing someone as cool and assertive and dignified as Edgeworth needed was to be reminded of that and notified about having had an audience to it. 

The humiliation would destroy him...  _No_. She'd talk to him if he talked to her about it  _first_. That was the fair thing to do, wasn't it?-- and given the relationship they had, maybe he would, anyway. 

What the hell was there to say to it, though? She'd never had to deal with that before-- she could only vaguely imagine the true horror of what it must have been like-- and she was lost for words entirely. It would be an awful conversation for the both of them, the awfulness made worse by the fact that they weren't discussing some terrible case they were working on, but a situation involving a colleague they both shared a building-- and in her case, an  _office_  with. She and Gant were a  _team_. The Duo. And now her faith in that had been shaken with the knowledge that he was capable of rape and god knows what else had happened in that room next to hers. How could she work with him again and keep still and silent? Did she  _want_  to? What would happen if she did-- or  _didn't_?

 

 

Yet again, she cursed herself-- and  _them_  for having thrown her into this situation. Others had left the convention happy or bored or slightly tipsy and hopeful-- or in von Karma's case, with an award and a title. She wondered how the King of Prosecutors would feel knowing what had occurred this evening. If it weren't for what he'd just done, she'd have otherwise felt sorry for Gant-- Manfred von Karma's rage-- which seldom surfaced but likely would now-- was terrifying, according to what she'd heard.

She sat in the bath, knees hunched to her chin, as the shower continued to run next door. Either it drowned out any conversation between the two of them or there was none. 

When it stopped, she forced herself to stand up, make her way back to her room, and get dried and dressed. She had a sense that  _someone_  was going to step out of room 205 and hoped it would be Edgeworth. The idea of him sleeping in there with Gant was nothing short of revolting. If it transpired that that was how it was happening, she could at least offer him shelter in her own room.

She flicked her still-damp hair back and unlocked her door, padding out into the empty corridor. It was later now and silent; from a window at the end of the hallway, she couldn't see just how dark it was outside; the curtains had been drawn as though telling the guests that it was time for sleep. It was only then that she realised she'd not even looked out of her own bedroom window.

Surely enough, as expected, the door to 205 opened next to hers.

Her heart leapt to somewhere in the back of her throat and she gasped when she saw Edgeworth. His head hung down and he didn't see her initially. He was dressed, and his normally fastidiously-styled hair was hanging down, limp and darker than usual. At least the poor kid had had a shower.

 _...And destroyed any evidence that could convict Gant_ , her investigative cynic's mind reasoned. 

 

"Miles?" She spoke softly, and looked at him. She was surprised when his eyes met hers, grey and sad and tired.

"Lana." His voice sounded different. Something was  _missing_. She stifled a gulp and put on an effort to keep her face still. She didn't want him to know what she'd heard-- he'd talk if he wanted-- or needed-- to. Now a bit removed from the situation, she found herself wondering if it  _had_  been entirely consensual, just... strange.

"Fancy seeing you here," she said with a slight smile. The sort of thing you said when you didn't know what else to say, a stupid statement really, and far too deceptively happy when you knew what you'd heard just before. 

"Shouldn't you be back at home?" she asked softly. "What were you planning on doing tonight?"

Miles looked down at the floor. It was then that Lana noticed that one of the buttons on his ornate jacket was missing, a crimson thread dangling pathetically where it had been. That Edgeworth-- the picky, perfectly groomed ponce-- hadn't noticed that-- or hadn't  _cared_ \-- because he'd been too consumed with something  _else_ \-- made her skin crawl.

"Certainly not  _this_ ," he said self-depreciatively. 

They were skirting close to The Subject.

"You had a fair bit to drink," Lana said, feeling her voice wobble and her brain scream to  _not mention it_. "Feeling better now?"

Edgeworth smiled. "Yes," he said. "Though I won't be doing that again." There was a soft, ironic note in his voice. 

"Would you like me to drive you home?" At least she could offer  _that_. Her car was a mess and nothing close to the Jaguar he was used to being driven around in with von Karma... but she doubted he'd care right now.

"Please," he said softly. She then realised she'd never heard him say it before-- and sound this grateful and relieved. Usually there was a sneer of derision with it-- and just about everything else he said. 

She wanted to hug him, even though she wasn't a huggy person and she knew he wasn't either. At what point did her reaction become about her needs and wants-- dominating his? He didn't appear to want to be touched at all; hell, he seemed eerily calm about the whole thing. 

Maybe she'd imagined it. Maybe it had been Gant playing some sort of sick joke on her. The mind played tricks on people when it came to trauma, didn't it?

 

He nodded, and she noticed a shudder running through him, like he was some kind of timid, terrified animal. The smell lingering around him suggested that he hadn't showered; a nauseating combination of sweat and vomit and sex. It made her look down at the floor-- no matter what she did or where she looked, the horror of what had happened wasn't just going to go away.

Even if she didn't mention it. Even if  _he_  didn't. She wondered if he realised that she knew what had happened-- what was she  _meant_  to do? Instinct dictated giving him a hug, protecting him, forcing him to go home with her and sleep off the effects of the night while tomorrow she'd put in complaints to the Ethical Standards Department about Gant. 

But then there was Edgeworth himself.  _What would_ he _want?_  she wondered, trying to read him, desperate to not look at him.

"Do you... want... anything?" she asked limply, before trying once again to meet his eyes. "Did... you have... a drink of water?"

"I'll be all right," he mumbled. He couldn't meet her eyes, his head lowered and his eyes moving to his shoes as he spoke. 

"Are you sure?" The sense of revulsion coursed through her like a particularly nasty poison. She felt lightheaded and queasy. 

"Yes." Was there some testiness in his voice there? Was he annoyed? She couldn't tell. 

"Okay," she said uncomfortably. "I'll drive you home." She offered a smile-- kind and hopefully understanding, and willing to fight for him, should he give the word... which she knew he wouldn't. "Hold on a second."

She dashed into her room for her handbag and carkeys, head still spinning, the realisation of what had happened coming back to her afresh as she staggered towards the bathroom.

  
From the corridor, Miles could only hear faint retching followed by the flush of a toilet and the running of tap water. They were just noises, just a part of something else, it was all mechanical, it was all part of a process, all easily comprehended and sorted... 

He wondered if Lana had heard what happened to him. A sense of humiliation struck him; he knew he'd been twitching since he'd managed to crawl off the bed while Gant was bathing in the ensuite, cheerfully talking to him as though absolutely nothing had just happened. 

Like it was perfectly  _normal_.

A horrible thought hit him then: had Gant done this before? Had the whole thing been elaborately set up? Was Lana-- the kind-hearted, soft-eyed woman standing in front of him and offering what sounded like a genuine, kind offer of assistance-- in on it as well? He couldn't bear to consider the possibility, but it was there. The two of them were partners-- did the have some sort of sick game set up where they  _did this_  to people? Miles felt another quiver of nausea run through him, the urge to throw up hitting him again; the panic, the sense of utmost betrayal and revulsion as well as the cringe-inducing worry about how Manfred would react when he arrived home.

 

And then there'd been Lana, standing there, looking just as stricken as he felt. He didn't know how to react to her: was she Gant's spy? Would she go back to him and report on his demeanor? Was she going to try and talk him out of pressing charges against her colleague? Suddenly no one was to be trusted. Even Manfred-- his adopted father, his mentor-- was under suspicion now: Manfred and Gant were old pals, they knew one another-- did  _he_  know about Gant doing things like this? Was there some great huge conspiracy that was out to destroy him?

He wanted to be sick again. He wanted to cry. He wanted to take a shower-- a hot one so he'd stop shaking, maybe-- he wanted to cover himself in soap and scrub away until his skin bore no possible traces of what had happened. Maybe it would go away then. Maybe it would stop hurting. Maybe...

He looked at Lana, very quickly. She'd returned from her room, shutting the door behind her skittishlessly, and then apologising. "Are you sure you didn't want anything?" she asked yet again.

 

It had been an effort to get as far as the door, and he'd not known what to do-- just that he  _had_  to get off the bed and out of the room-- or else he was going to be sick again, and now here he was, being offered a definite out. He'd be a fool to not take it. 

"Let's just go, thankyou," he said quietly, desperately hoping he just sounded tired.

 

  
They walked to the car in silence. Miles noticed the way Lana moved; like she was terrified and on-edge, metaphorically --and almost literally-- tiptoeing around him. He wanted to say something, to break the ice, and once or twice, his mouth opened when she wasn't looking, about to say something-- and then thoughts of work on Monday morning, of Gant's hollow booming laugh and Lana's maybe-conspiring with him and the fingers flicking his chin upwards and "No one's going to believe you anyway,  _Worth_ -less" and his ankle hitting the headboard as he struggled uselessly and the way he just Wouldn't. Stop. Shivering after the first bit had stopped-- and his mouth had snapped shut involuntarily. He couldn't say anything. Ever. To her nor anyone else. 

  
She unlocked her car; the carpark was deserted except for them now, and she murmured something about hoping that security hadn't locked it up. He wanted to scream " _Who CARES?!_ " but once again the Silence overtook him and he couldn't say anything, but move numbly into the front seat, pushing the empty coffee mug and crumpled box of tissues off the front seat.

"S-Sorry it's such a mess," she stammered, nervously, watching as he gingerly sat down and his head tilted upwards, forward, staring out the windscreen to look at the grey concrete walls and the unnatural white light facing them.

"Are... you... okay?" She slid the key into the ignition and turned it, something in her voice cracking then. For a split second, he turned to look at her, before turning back to look ahead of him, silently praying for the night to just be over, for the great veil of darkness to hide him from this for awhile. 

"I-I'm... fine." He hated her for her nervousness; his own resolve to remain calm was cracking under hers. 

"Do you know where I live?" He couldn't bring himself to say  _where my house is_  for reasons unknown; he just longed for escape, to get away from all of it-- and he fell silent as she nodded and recited his address to him.

She'd done her research, or she'd been told. Could he trust her? He wasn't sure, and so he just looked ahead, desperate to look solid and unshaken by the evening's ordeal.

It was when they approached the exit of the carpark that a hauntingly cheerful melody sounded from the space near the gearstick. Automatically, they both looked down; Lana's phone was ringing. Already, Miles could see the number on the screen. 

 _His number_. Not just an anonymous anywhere number, but lovingly listed and recognised as  _Damon Gant_. He shuddered underneath his suit, watching as she picked it up with one hand. He could see her arm trembling as she answered it and put the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" There was a crack in her voice, like she'd been crying or like she'd smoked several packets of cigarettes in the space of an evening. 

"Hi-ho!" She could feel her mouth drop open at the cheerfulness in his voice. "I'm just calling to see if you've got Worthy with you."

"I-er..."

"You do?" He sounded so  _normal_ , and it only increased her nausea and disgust. "I was just ringing to make sure that where ever he's gotten to, he's  _okay_ , and well, to offer my sincerest thankyous for your assistance tonight."

_He can't be serious..._

A sense of disgust flooded her once again as she numbly held the phone to her ear and steadfastly concentrated on the nearly empty road ahead of her. 

"I'll say, Lana-- I haven't had that much fun since I can remember. Young Worthy there is quite the little firecracker when he wants to be. Who'd think he'd have had it in him-- I mean, honestly-- when you last saw him this evening, he was all but passed out, wasn't he?" He chuckled again, the jovial laughter now sounding strangely possessed. But the truly horrific thing was that he wasn't possessed at all: he was the same man she shared an office and a workplace and lunch several times a week with.

 

"I owe you one, Lana... truly, I do." He chuckled again.

  
From across the seat, Miles' eyes flashed across at her, wondering who was on the other end of the phone. She didn't notice. She was focussed on the road and the traffic lights on the path to Manfred von Karma's house; she'd been there once before, many moons ago-- and knew pretty much where she was headed. If she could just tap into that autodrive about everything  _else_  in her life...

"The best bit, though: I don't think you realised how much  _fun_  I was going to have, did you? Did you hear it, Lana? Did you?" She longed to hang up, but both hands were on the wheel and the phone was pressed between her ear and her shoulder. Part of her wanted to tilt her head and let it drop to the floor, but if she did so... Miles would hear his voice. For his sake, she had to just ignore Gant, concentrate on driving the young prosecutor home, and then get out of here. And work out what to do later on.

"I know you were close by-- if you made any noise, well... we were too loud to be able to hear  _you_. A pity, really; you could have come and watched... I just had to lock the door, though; a precautionary measure-- he was fairly irritated when he first started sobering up, and, well--  _ho ho ho_ \-- I'm a  _gentleman_ , dear Lana, as you well know. It wouldn't have been fitting of me to have just taken advantage of the boy while he was passed out..."

She pressed her foot into the accelerator, eyes grim and determined as the car screamed with sudden exertion. 

"Of course, he got fairly noisy at one stage; I thought he was going to alert the rest of the hotel, and I doubt they'd have enjoyed the show as much as you might have." He paused, and she could already clearly envision the expression on his face, burned into her mind. "You and I, Lana, we have a special relationship, don't we? One that few people outside the office we share understand."

She blinked, a single tear running down her face. "No..." she muttered into the phone, pointedly staring into the road ahead, avoiding Miles, hoping he wasn't looking at her. She hated what she was hearing, hated herself for crying, loathed the fact that she'd been so trusting to begin with. It was all her fault and the man sitting next to her had been...  _violated_  because of that.

"...and he looks so beautiful when he struggles, Lana. Honestly-- a sight to behold!" She could hear him clapping, and felt another twist of revulsion in her stomach, and she furiously blinked away more tears.

"He pleaded with me to stop, you know. Said he'd do anything, anything but... well, anything that I  _wanted_ , really." He chuckled again. "It's funny when they're that proud, actually. Usually they bend on their own, but Worthy here... no... He had to  _be_  bent." He paused, as though considering, as Lana sped down the road. 

Yeah, she was speeding. And she didn't care. When she stopped, she could let poor Miles out, let the kid get some sleep in a familiar environment, she could click the phone off after telling Gant to go to hell, she could--

"Don't tell me that you're  _crying_ , now, Lana?"

She gritted her teeth, and hit the main road where the von Karma residence's street stemmed off from. 

Gant made a  _tsk tsk_  sound with his tongue. "A big softie, aren't you, Lana? Can't handle the big boys having a bit of fun, can you?" 

She shuddered. If the phone had been in her left hand, she'd have thrown it out of the window just to be rid of him. Another glance at Miles, who was focussed ahead of him, so concentrated that he might have been embarrassed-- even though she wasn't saying anything and he probably couldn't hear Gant's voice, she wondered if he was feeling like an intruder.

"I-- have to go," she murmured weakly. Maybe he'd lose interest. 

"Oh, ho-- not just yet."

She pulled down the street where Miles' house was.

"A funny thing happened afterwards," he said. "There I was, relaxing in the tub after a hard night's activity-- enjoyable as it was, I felt the need for a nice relaxing soak afterwards-- and I had certain hotel staff annoy me, dear Lana, about my telephone."

Her heart stopped. Just for a second. How did he know it was--

"And I was thinking, 'True: I unplugged the telephone so we wouldn't be disturbed during our activities...'"

 _Our._  She felt another tear run down her face. Like it was  _consensual_. 

..."But how would anyone  _know_  this? And why on  _earth_  would I telephone the help desk to advise them that I'd unplugged my own phone?"

She remained silent, realising that Miles' house was nearby, slowing the car to a low crawl. She turned to face him, and could see him looking out his window now, like a dog captivated by the scenery from a car window. 

"It's this one," he mumbled. "With the black gates out the front."

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked. Ignoring the phone pressed to her ear, ignoring Gant, her concentration now focussed on the young man reaching for the door handle. 

"Fine," he said in monotone. She watched as the door opened. In one ear, she could still hear Gant waffling on about the telephone issue, but her attention was solely focussed on Miles. 

"Do you  _need_  anything?" she finally asked. 

"No," he said. Desperately trying to sound happy. "Thankyou for the lift home." 

It was those last few words that caused her to break down. There was only a slight variation in the way they sounded, but something broken and drained and exhausted, like he'd finally succumbed to what had happened and couldn't  _do_  it any longer and in the safety of his own territory, he had the freedom to just  _crack_. She heard the door close behind him as he walked quickly up the driveway to his front door.

Gant was still on the phone. She sniffled, finally able to cry. "You  _bastard_!" she screamed at him. "You disgusting, perverted  _bastard_!" 

Gant chuckled, and then a calm, too-controlled note came into his voice.

"He doesn't care," he said. "He's not going to do anything about it?"

"How do you  _know_?" Lana asked through another sob.

"We discussed it." He sounded so fucking  _smug_ , too. "It appears the lad has some honour and doesn't wish for your career to be destroyed as well as his. Which is what he knows will happen if he talks." He chuckled to himself.

"I'll get you one day," she said. "And he'll have no idea, the poor kid..." She rambled incoherently, a mixture of sobs and disgust and tears and sniffles. 

But Gant's voice remained crisp and calm.

"I know you were trying to get me in trouble, Lana," he said. "And we're going to stay friends because we _are_ and because we work together. But say anything of this to  _anyone_ \-- or double-cross me again like that-- and both you and Worth-less will be experiencing much worse from the inside of a prison cell." The smugness in his voice now held a tinge of anger. "I can make these things happen, Lana."

She sobbed again, falling against the seat, wishing to turn the phone off but unable to.

"You... bastard..." she sniffled. Exhausted, she flopped against the back of her seat and sniffled again. 

"Good night, Lana," Gant said with a chuckle. "I'll see you bright and early on Monday morning." He paused again and added one thing before hanging up. "--And I'll see Mr. Worth-less-- too."


End file.
